


The Great and Good

by perryvic, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book: Raising Steam, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 18:04:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21165857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perryvic/pseuds/perryvic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: It was a little jarring to see the great and the good of Ankh Morpork trying to be frivolous when that actually suited very few of them. He was pretty sure the Disc itself trembled when he say that even Vetinari was dressed up.  It wasn't a real stretch as he had dressed as an Assassin which it could be argued was very close to what he wore anyway, but even so everyone had apparently made an effort for Moist Von Lipwig opening of the new central station of Ankh Morpork and the inaugural run of the first luxury locomotive. He’d tried to get out of it, but Vetinari had sent him some very pointed memos about the Law being present as such an event.Moist would have been harder to recognise if it hadn't been for Mrs Dearheart standing beside him looking like more of a vampire than Lady Margolotta. (Adora Belle Dearheart, in marriage, was certainly not Mrs von Lipwig, and occasionally Vimes wondered if Moist should have given in and changed his name to Mr. Dearheart.)He was dressed like a highwayman, complete with leather hobby horse on a stick.





	The Great and Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liesmyth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/gifts).

Sam Vimes hated fancy dress.

Frankly he considered most of the formal clothing he was meant to wear as a Duke pretty much along the same lines as fancy dress with far too many feathers and stockings and puffed up pants to be considered practical - and his background meant they were lucky to have any ‘dress’ at all when they were growing up let alone something ‘fancy’.

Sibyl Vimes hated it, too, but she got a perverse delight in making sure Sam was participating, a gleeful kind of good natured enthusiasm that made Sam wince when it was applied to him. He gave in eventually, he always did because of how it pleased Sybil. But he wasn't made for fancy dress, he didn’t have the face to pull off light-hearted foolery. Who did he go as, he’d asked Sybil in his best sarcastic tone, old Stoneface?

And that apparently was the solution, right there and before he knew it, there had been a costume ordered, fitted and presented to him and he couldn’t even argue because it was apparently his own idea. 

Sibyl, dressed as a dragon, had insisted the axe be left at home even though he said he'd have to explain it over and over who it was without it, but standing in the entrance foyer of the new Grand Central Station, he wasn't sure who anyone was dressed as. Everyone clearly had a great deal of explaining to do, and he really missed the axe.

It was a little jarring to see the great and the good of Ankh Morpork trying to be frivolous when that actually suited very few of them. He was pretty sure the Disc itself trembled when he say that even Vetinari was dressed up. It wasn't a real stretch as he had dressed as an Assassin which it could be argued was very close to what he wore anyway, but even so everyone had apparently made an effort for Moist Von Lipwig opening of the new central station of Ankh Morpork and the inaugural run of the first luxury locomotive. He’d tried to get out of it, but Vetinari had sent him some very pointed memos about the Law being present as such an event.

Moist would have been harder to recognize if it hadn't been for Mrs Dearheart standing beside him looking like more of a vampire than Lady Margolotta. (Adora Belle Dearheart, in marriage, was certainly not Mrs von Lipwig, and occasionally Vimes wondered if Moist should have given in and changed his name to Mr. Dearheart.)

He was dressed like a highwayman, complete with leather hobby horse on a stick. There was a certain aptness to the costume, and he could tell from Vetinari's arched eyebrow (version 28) that he was mildly amused at least. He had to say, he didn't have a clue what the Wizards were dressed up as. The Archchancellor appeared to still be wearing his Archchancellor's hat while dressed in some form of sporting gear.

Which... didn't seem that different from usual, given that Ridcully usually looked like he was going to take out a bird on the wing with a crossbow, standing in Sator Square. And Ponder Stibbons, who Carrot seemed to keep a good correspondence with, had little candles in glass globes stitched to his clothes. He heard him loudly telling another party goer that he was apparently dressed up as a thaum. Presumably that was hilarious if you were a wizard, but everyone else was just looking slightly perplexed.

Gods, and he couldn't even drink. He was going to have to deal with all that crap whilst being sober.

"Oh my gods, Lady Sibyl, the sparkle on your scales! That's lovey!"

"You are very kind to say so Pepe," Sybil said warmly. "I did consider asking you and Madame Sharn to design something, but it seems I left things a little late."

"I'm sure we could have fitted something in for you," Madam Sharn entered in what seemed to Sam a completely impractical dwarven warrior garb with a distinctly female slant. “My Bhrian Bloodaxe costume is practically an advertisement. Pepe says we’ve taken 3 new sales for custom outfits already.”

Pepe raised his glass happily, “I, of course am here as Diamond King of Trolls - the original. It’s basically an excuse to glam up. We could all use a bit of sparkle, eh, Sir Samuel?”

Vimes sighed inwardly - it would be all over the Times in the morning and fresh outrage everywhere.

That was half of what kept the Times going, that fresh sense of outrage, and names, of course. Vimes liked the dwarves, though. They were, even when they were being political little buggers, up front about it. At least the ones in Ankh Morpork were, though they had a tendency to try and use their own laws. Ye gods, he was in for a long night by the first initial look of it, even as Sybil took his arm and steered him further in, past the circulating wine bars that were the waitstaff.

He'd given up praying for Carrot to come bursting in with a request for him to come immediately because he was damn sure that Sybil took his men to one side and 'had a quiet word' in these situations.

"Now Sam, please remember that this is meant to be an entertainment. It is a pretend murder and the guests are meant to guess the murderer. They've been playing it among the nobility in Quirm and Sto Lat and it is quite the sensation," Sybil said while still smiling and nodding at acquaintances. It was an amazing skill she had to do it without moving her lips. "Mr Von Lipwig wanted something memorable to commemorate the opening of Ankh Morpork Grand Central Station and the first run of the Aurient Express... so let's make it memorable for all the right reasons please."

"Instead of the usual reasons?" She was the one of them who kept a sharpened sword over the fireplace and wasn't afraid to use it. "Is it a full moon? We all know what happened when--"

"Yes, but this is the New Grand Central, and not Dagon street."

Vetinari has a disconcerting way of suddenly being in a space he could've swore was empty ten seconds before hand. He could fade into the background in an empty room.

"I have it on good authority that not only is the station clear of malevolent influences," the Patrician said. "But neither has the new engine been possessed by any quasi-demonic forces either."

Vetinari could pointedly not look at things in a way that made it really obvious and Vimes’ arm itched under the scrutiny. Vimes sighed, and glanced over to where Moist was making a ploy for everyone's attention by cupping his hands together. "Thank you, everyone, for giving the City of Ankh-Morpork the honour of your presence here tonight on this inaugural journey. I now call upon High Priest Hughnon Ridcully to bless this maiden voyage."

There was the polite smattering of applause of the type of those sorts of people who can afford to have somebody do their applauding for them.

He watched as the High Priest of Blind Io stepped forward as Moist was making his usual dramatic style of speech about introducing a new era of luxury high speed travel to exotic cities and countries as he got into position.

He wasn't sure if it was good or bad that Hughnon Ridcully was dressed up as what Vines could only guess was a troll. Maybe. Possibly he was supposed to be a statute of one of the gods, the sort that was crumbling. It was a spectacle that wasn't quite spectacle enough to draw a crowd to watch, though the fancy dress alone was doing a good job.

It seemed nobody was entirely sure how to launch a steam engine, and somewhere along the line the tradition of launching a boat with a bottle had taken a sideways step and Vimes was pretty sure the High Priest had just launched and blessed the Aurient Express by hurling a flask of tea at it.

Seemed about right, Vimes decided, falling into a detached sort of scanning of the room as he noted every uppity up and nob there, as well as the collection of non-nobs that Vetinari had cultivated for the good of the city. Moist as the master of ceremonies made him feel oddly morose, because it implied things, future things, outcomes that seemed obvious if one squinted hard enough, and it wouldn't be terrible to have that slippery bastard as patrician?

Sam wasn't sure he could respect the man. Not the way he did Vetinari, but then they did have history together. 

With any luck Vetinari was as unkillable as he appeared to be for a few more years yet.

With great pomp, ceremony and a rather appalling brass band, they were ushered onto the Aurient Express to make their inaugural journey to the lively tune of “The sun has got its pants on”.

Vimes had to admit, they had promised something extraordinary and had delivered - even he had to stop and take in the sheer opulence and style of the carriage. Sybil was exclaiming it was marvellous, and how much Young Sam would enjoy a trip and he could sense a lot of train journeys in his future if his wife had anything to say about it. The carriages were spacious, exceptionally comfortable, like a mobile stately home, apparently complete with complimentary Wilikins here and then to serve the passengers every whim.

Well appointed couch seats facing each other, tables between them, the sort of thing that made him wonder where Moist had... appropriated them from. Maybe it was all business outcomes, like the clacks. The steam engines were spreading exponentially now the technology had been perfected. He of course was only interested in how hard they made his job which was pretty damn hard some days but others it helped. Once you were on certain trains there was nowhere to go and he’d set up a few stings Clacks-ing ahead to have the local Sammies pick up a suspect.

Here and now though, the challenge was going to be who they ended up sitting with in the carriage.

Apparently there was a dining carriage and one with an extensive bar - Moist knew his clientele at least and there were overnight 'cabins' as well which Sybil insisted on inspecting immediately, leaving him to hope for a bit of peace and quiet. It was only an overnight after all. He could sleep through a lot of it with any luck.

He was known to be a phenomenally overworked man, so if he just collapsed, well... we'll he'd worry about what was going on. Damn.

Damn.

The pomp eased up abit as people bustled around, and the wizards and dwarves set up immediate camp in the dining car.

For some reason people seemed to be avoiding his carriage which made him at once pleased and mildly suspicious. Thinking about it his normal personality could be describe as mildly suspicious. It amused him to watch them from the comparative comfort of his carriage; The High Priest and the Archchancellor having a row; family stuff from the looks of it, it usually was. Lord Downey talking to Vetinari in a way that made him alert like the terrier the papers called him; Dr Whiteface chatting with Moist and Adora, and she looked ready to stab him in his face but thinking about it that was par for the course. Her nick name was not Spike for nothing.

He'd heard... things from the house next door. Not shouting rows, no, that made him think of Cockbill street, but odd strangled noises that made him think about other bedroom pursuits, only it was distinctly a male voice.

Didn't bear thinking on. As Carrot would say while blushing furiously, “It takes all sorts to make a world”.

Sybil, always being more social than he was, moved on to chat with, oh good lord, was that the high priest's wife? That was as strange of thinking of Mustrum married.

He could hear Ridcully bellowing to his fellow wizard, Stibbons or whatever his name was to find him a snack of dinner was going to be more than a few minutes and really, maybe he could just have a little nap.  
The couch was very comfortable, and the clattering of the rails was a soothing background noises.

Just a short nap.

* * *

"Sam! Sam, wake up, Hughnon is dead!" This was not actually an unremarkable way to be woken up by his wife. It was that or "Captain Carrot is here" or Angua...

He startled awake, half processing what he heard. "Gods, have they started that game thing already? Stupid bloody idea if you ask me." He opened his eyes properly and then realised that Sybil looked genuinely worried.

"They haven’t started the game, but then, you have to come."

"It's bloody obvious he’s been poisoned," Pepe called over his shoulder, into their cabin. “That or spontaneously turned blue and stopped breathing for a laugh.”

"You mean there really is a murder?" he asked standing up feeling sleep fall away from him. "What happened? Who are the witnesses?"

"He was eating his sandwich and just keeled over. We all saw it!"

He got himself up, shoving sleep away, and staggered into the dining car to behold the whole cacophony of panic. Ladies were fainting into socially appropriate swoons, men were gesticulating and offering gruff opinions that were based on gems of wisdom from the Times and everyone was frankly causing more of a fuss than anything else.

"Okay, that's enough!" he bellowed out, used to making himself heard in panicking situation. "Everyone sit down right now and let me do my job."

He had to admit Hughnon Ridcully looked as pretty much like a corpse as he'd ever seen.

The oddest part was that Mustrum was sitting at the table, calm as anything, chewing on his sandwich. "I told you all, he'll be right as rain in an hour."

"Archchancellor, I regret to inform you that your brother has no pulse." Stibbons said, doffing his pointy hat in respect for the recently deceased.

"Are you absolutely sure he's been poisoned?" Mrs Palm asked. "Could it be an allergy? We once had a client who uh… turned out to be allergic to some products. Poor man. I think he still walks with a limp."

"He's fine!" Mustrum blustered. “Pass the pickled onions would you Oh and the cheese board. That’s the ticket.”

Sam got down on his knees and checked for breath, for anything, and caught sight of Vetinari out of the corner of his eye. Not a damn thing. "Mustrum. What happened?"

"I don't why everyone is making such a fuss," the Archchancellor said, seemingly oblivious to the way his brother was a pale bluish colour, with bloodshot eyes rolled back in his head. Vimes reckoned Reg had a better tan than he did. 

"Hughnon probably ate something that disagreed with him. Weakest stomach of the family."

"Er, Archchancellor, didn't you say only last week that the Ridcullys found all food very agreeable?" Ponder added.

"Maybe we can establish if it was poison," Vimes said looking around trying to catch a flinch or eye flick reaction to the word. "We do after all have some experts who have been trained to recognise such things. Lord Downey, would you be able to help our enquiries?" 

Lord Downey edged over like the dead priest might be contagious. He was dressed as a clown, which made for a hellish crossover of Guilds if Vimes thought about it too hard. "He keeled right over, and nothing does that but poison or a knife in the ribs..."

"A simplistic view," Vetinari said raising an eyebrow. "I suppose it distils it to its essential nature but the method of introducing it to the system can vary greatly." He looked at the body, which Vimes noticed had a grey pallor and blue tinge to the lips and skin. "It must be said the symptoms do not match any poison I know."

“Ooo, I bet that’s a lot,” Pepe said with a smirk raising a glass to that feat. It looked like he was well on his way to raising a glass or two to everything anyone said.

Sam tsked, rolling the man onto his side just to check for any knives. "I wish Corporal Littlebottom was here."

He reached for his notebook, mildly pleased it was still there in his pocket. "Right then. Who of you saw what actually happened?"

"He took a bite of his sandwich, screamed in agony and keeled over. I thought I heard an explosion," Ponder declared, batting at one of the candle orbs that encircled him.

"An explosion?" Vimes asked. "We don't have dragons on board, do we?" That was the last thing that they needed.

Sybil would be delighted, but she would be the only one if it was an assassination tool. Ponder looked at him curiously, though. "It sounded like it came from inside his stomach."

"Ah well." Vimes cleared his throat. "We...are all subject to such misadventures sometimes." If Young Sam was to be believed, all the time but he was at that stage where every bodily function was a source of complete and utter baffling hilarity. He noted it down anyway. " So we believe the sandwich is the source...now does anyone know of anyone who might want to tamper with his sandwich?"

The wizards were quiet then. Ponder was suspiciously so, and Mustrum was angrily so, which seemed about right.

"Blast it, I told you he'll be fine! That’s just Hughnon for you, always fond of his naps" he said. “He used to take them at the damndest times when we were growing up. Once we were mid tracking a deer and he was leveling up his cross-bow and he fell asleep just as he pulled the trigger. Best shot he ever made, I say. Great times, great times...”

"Mustrum, how do you know he'll be fine?" Sam asked even as others muttered around them. "When someone has stopped breathing..."

"He’ll be just fine." Well that sounded like a perfectly reasonable response, sure, and Sam wanted bang his head with the frustration of dealing with someone who perhaps was so used to messing with the fabric of reality, eating vast banquets and paddling with the occult (or something like that) on a daily basis that possibly he really did think he would wake up. Or perhaps he was sure he was going to do a Reg Shoe, though Hughnon Ridcully didn’t strike him as someone with pressing unfinished business.

Except the sandwich.

For a Ridcully, that might count now he came to think about it.

"Maybe we should move him back into a chair." Moist sounded ever hopeful as he made the suggestion as if they were going to carry on having dinner around the suspected corpse. Vimes thought sourly that the dinner conversation might improve a little as a result

"Perhaps it would be better if he was in a carriage where he can... recover comfortably," Sybil suggested delicately.

"Perfect, even better!" Moist slapped his hands together in a clap, and bent to grab him by the shoulders. "Commander, could you....?"

He looked at him and exhaled - Hughnon was not a small man by any means and he didn’t want to pop anything vital. "Fine." The attempt of the two of them to lift the substantial bulk of Hughnon Ridcully into a nearby carriage gave their dinner companions a show all of its own.

Sam nearly ruptured something in the process.

He was mostly sure it was spinal, but it could've been a spleen. People didn't really need a spleen, did they? And Moist produced a handkerchief from who knew where and wiped at his forehead. "I think that pulled my shoulder out. This is terrible. We don't need murders here! I mean, how do you even know jurisdiction?"

"I once arrested an army on the grounds of hot pursuit," Sam replied, with a hint of remembered satisfaction. Sometimes when Vetinari was keeping him waiting he’d take that memory out of arresting the Patrician and the two armies and getting it to stick and lovelingly polished it with fond recollection. "So if this is a murder, then it'll be my jurisdiction." And he'd like to see any of the local Sammies argue that particular toss.

"And the archchancellor really thinks he's going to be alright. That sounds insane." Moist was testing whether that was insane, because eh, wizards. Not that Sam knew why he was asking him whether wizards were in the know on death. Although rumour had it they got to speak to Death if they had a fresh egg, three bits of wood and a live mouse.

He wasn't sure the train was old enough to have mice, but given that the rats were semi sentient, he wasn't sure why the mice wouldn't have formed guilds and divvied the territory up already, that would be about his luck 

"I suppose the one advantage is that we are on this train and nobody can get away," he said looking for any silver lining possible because when word of this got out, it would be headlines.

"Right."

"So how long has it been since he collapsed?" Vimes asked as they prepared to go back to the others.

"Just a few minutes. Lady Sybil..." Lady Sybil Vimes, not that anyone called her that except in long formal settings. "Fetched you straight off. Still, unless he's breathing through his skin, can't say it looks good for him."

"This is where I need someone professional like Dr Lawn handy," Vimes said, because it was very embarrassing to be investigating a crime that turned out not to be a crime... "So we've got maybe another half an hour or so according to the Archchancellor before he should be resurrected."

"At which point, I think we'll have an angry wizard on our hands," Moist half agreed with an unspoken voice in the back of Sam's head. Hurrah, an angry wizard, that was just what anyone needed. "So if there hasn't yet been a murder, there might still be time."

"Well, we might as well distract them with dinner or whatever if anyone will eat," Vimes said. "Go do what you do best, Postmaster."

"Bank chairman, today, I think," Moist mused, eyeing the body with a bit of hesitation before he stepped away.

Just to be on the safe side Vimes looked over the body carefully to see if there were any other signs of murder. Nothing visible, but he noted it down anyway. He needed to confiscate the half eaten sandwich too. 

He didn't think anyone would have finished it off while he was standing there, but there was a chance because this was Ankh Morpork citizens who firmly believed in double checking something was deadly by giving it another chance to be deadly, so he moved back to the dining car to grab it before someone decided to try their chances.

He'd be less concerned if he thought most of the people out there had more than a ounce of common sense between them. They were that odd combination of being highly educated and innately stupidly useless that seemed to come as free gift with a weak chin and a tendency to laugh like a braying donkey. He tried to look reassuring as he went back out and Sybil came over to stand next to him using her gods-given talent of talking whilst appearing just to smile. "Everyone thinks he's just sleeping Sam," she said even as Moist when on to announce the commencement of the interrupted dinner once evidence had been collected.

"Oh gods. Okay." He couldn't make a fuss of it, and maybe the Arch-chancellor was right, maybe it was all going to be okay.

And maybe his brother was actually a troll.

He would have to discreetly ask around. Have a look. Look for clues even though he despised clues. They were too untrustworthy in their sudden appearance.

"I put the remains of the Sandwich in my bag that I carry for additions to Young Sam's poo collection," she said. "That was right wasn't it?"

"That was the best thing." So now it was a waiting game while everyone else played an actual game, and he could use their distraction to ferret out what had happened without upsetting the creme de la creme of society.

"After that impromptu excitement ladies and gentlemen," Moist was saying, "I do hope you have all enjoyed your refreshments."

There was sort of a grumbling cheer, which Vimes took as a yes, because silence would've been a worse sign.

"Then let us continue with the Entertainment," Moist said with false cheer. "A dastardly murder has just taken place.."

"I thought you said he was just sleeping!" Lady Selachii said in tones that indicated she was going to become overly melodramatic at any moment.

"A different pretend murder my Lady," Moist said smoothly. "Provided to us by the Guild of Actors."

"Sport, folks. Pretend games," Vimes chipped in, to take the piss out of Moist's natural ability to make people think what was coming out of his mouth was a truth.

"Yes, thank you for that..."

"Oh I read about these in the Times. All the rage in Quirm I believe," Lord Downey said. "Well, I'm sure we will have it solved in time for dessert."

He smiled and moved to uneasily lean against a wall to watch, while Moist handed out cards to everyone. "Do not let your neighbours see your cards, please..."

Sam looked at his. It said "A Clue. You saw Lady Violetta in the Dining car with a small bottle in her hand just before dinner."

If only clues came so conveniently written up.

"Now, you all have a unique clue, and you can choose to share it, or try and hold on to it so you can be the only one to solve it. Let's see… the murder scene itself!" Moist said dramatically, as a troupe of actors dressed as lords and ladies swept in. The lights lowered a moment allowing the corpse to artfully arrange himself on the floor and then returned as if the group of 6 actors had just stumbled across the body.

He was pretty sure that the scene was much calmer than the reality, even with all of their theatrical flailing. The Dysk, they were not.

He watched in semi-boredom as the troupe acted out a hotbed of over complicated intrigue, when any decent watchmen knew that it was generally a spontaneous un-thought through spur of the moment thing without handy clues.

And apparently they were meant to find murderer, motive and means. It was pretty simple to him, so he spent his time seeing if there was any reaction to the real possibility they had an actual murderer in their midst.

The crowd seemed calm, relaxed, though anyone who did show nerves could've either been concerned about the corpse or their own imminent capture.

"I think he's been partaking as well!" Ridcully announced gesturing at the 'corpse'.

"No, Archchancellor, he's an actor pretending to be dead," Stibbons was saying next to him. "It's a game."

Bloody stupid game.

"What a stupid game," the Archchancellor muttered. "There isn't even anything to chase or shoot at."

"Not all games involve shooting or chasing things Archchancellor" Stibbons said with a long suffering sigh.

"The best ones do," he snapped unhappily at Ponder, and that, Vimes decided, was just about everything anyone needed to know about wizards.

It would be out of character for Ridcully to plot murder considering since his tenure as the Archchancellor Wizards no longer considered murdering their fellows as a natural means of career progression. They were more likely to eat themselves to death because their food consumption was a thing of legend. Who else might have a grudge?

Well, the High Priest of Blind Io would be privy to a lot of secrets and everyone here had those. Vetinari was practically held together with secrets, but he didn’t see him as the type to go and confess them to a god. More a type to use them to blackmail a god.

The Patrician seemed to sense his attention focused his way and turned to look at Vimes.

Even after years of it, and having saved the man's life at least twice, he still felt a pang of instinctive guilt and suspicion and he didn't know what when Vetinari looked at him like that. It came with the title, sure, but Vetinari didn't need to murder someone slyly. If he wanted someone dead there were a hundred public ways to do it.

Moist Von Lipwig was no killer either. He knew the type, had his measure. He had a peculiar form of genius that thrived on pressure but he'd rather create a ludicrous public spectacle of himself than murder to keep a secret. 

Dr Downey, well he was a killer by definition and some of the Guild heads would most definitely use the services of an assassin - many of their efforts had fallen afoul of his vegetable patch for a start. But he did have a professional requirement for a contract to have been issued and they always left a receipt.

Still, didn't seem the type to murder for free. That was bothering him. There were plenty of folks he could imagine committing a clandestine murder in any other circumstance except the one they were in and against a large number of people except the more god fearing Ridcully.

Lord and Lady Rust had no end of issues with their various offspring; that was a potential. Another priest, a little bit of infighting...he wasn't sure if they had any others.

He'd have to ask around when the ride was over, or shake the man down right there, or-- oh, Sybil. She knew everyone, she knew how many children they had and their hobbies, and all those pleasant things that were part of her Women that Organised network.

She was currently talking with Adora Belle Dearheart aka Spike which instantly made Vimes suspicious as to what was going on.

"...of course, Pepe and Madams clothing is very practical. I've commission a special type of micromail to see if we can develop a type that will work with dragons. " Sybil was saying. "I was wearing some when Bunty's dragon Sir Fewmet Talonstrike drank a bottle of Bearhuggers finest and promptly exploded in my lap! I was a little scorched, but no harm done."

Except for the poor bloody dragon which had splatted itself everywhere. Apparently, the drapes hadn’t survived the encounter either. "Sybil -- hello, Mrs. Dearheart, so you mind if I interrupt? -- Sybil, have the Rust’s got any children in the priesthood?"

"Oh, I think they have their third son in there," Sybil answered. "It was Gravid who got exiled I believe."

"Exiled from the... which god?" 

"No dear," Sybil said patiently, and Sam mentally winced as that meant he would be receiving a lecture later. "Gravid Rust was the one that got exiled to FourEcks and disowned over that business down at Crundells. Ronnie has been rather subdued about it all really."

"Yes well, no I remember that now thank you, bloody Lucky he didn't get hung. I suppose I'd be subdued to." That was probably the only chance he could have had a snapping motive out of the air, and Mrs Dearheart was giving him a laughing look as if she knew what he was trying to think of.

"Sir Samuel," she said in a drawl. "I'm not sure it is considered lucky to be sent to FourEcks where there are an abundance of venomous spiders I believe."

"But in between the spiders you have the option of not dying and spending your time deliriously drunk." He managed a smirk, and stepped back, "Apologies for butting in."

"My pleasure," Spike replied. "Though I don't believe he was involved in the scenario.”

"Everyone is a suspect," Vimes said with a faint smile, falling back on his Watchman conversational skills.

Spike made a thoughtful noise, and inhaled on her cigarette. "I could come up with a motive if you let me. He wasn't fond of Golems."

"Always thought that was strange considering they were created by priests somewhere," Sam answered, but he mentally made a note. "I think people would have noticed a golem though." He paused a moment. "Or are you talking about the game?

She gave him a tight little smile that reminded Sam of an assassin's garrotte, since it damn near twanged, and said, "Yes. To all three."

Still not that clear really. "Well. Yes. I'm not sure I approve of making murder into a game. It’s never that bloody neat with handy written clues and elaborate conspiracies."

"We'd be disappointed if you did, Commander." Sybil was almost pulling a smile, so it was possibly safe to leave her there with their very strange neighbour.

"I must just go and speak to ...Lord Downey," he said casting around randomly. "Excuse me."  
He slipped away heading towards the Guildmaster of the assassins."

"Lord Downey," he said.

"Commander." Lord Downey had a charming way of making it sound like he was something stuck to the bottom of one expensive boot.

"I don't suppose it was one of your lot?" he asked. "Or at least are there contacts out on Hughnon?"

"Mmmm, nooo." Lord Downey's voice tipped downward as he contemplated it. "We haven't had someone attempt to take a contract out on him since five hogswatches ago. Our man caught fire, spontaneously, as he approached. I rather had expected lightning..."

"Blind Io obviously likes to mix things up a little," Sam said. "You expect him to protect the priest now then."

"And given the potential of it bringing his brother's wrath down on us... it wasn't worth it to accept any longer." He said it dismissively, as if the whole Wizard Problem wasn't that bad.

"Hmm. And this isn't a poison you recognise?" He double checked. He always verified where he could."

"Could be cyanide." He made a bit of a face. "It could be a poison, yes."

That seemed very vague really, as if he was hiding something. The assassins had long impressive study courses on poisons so could be's and might was not really good enough to be convincing.  
Unless he was embarrassed he couldn't identify it.

If the head of a guild couldn't identify a poison that was scandalous. Of course the best assassin in the room was not the head of the guild, so his eyes drifted to find Vetinari again lurking comfortably nearby and seemingly not paying attention, which he knew was a lie.

He excused himself again and moved over to speak to the Patrician.

"I see you have forgone the relaxing part of the evening," he said.

"If such a thing ever existed, sir. I thought if anyone might recognize the poison..." he let it linger in suggestion, without it becoming an accusation somehow.

"It is not in the text book," Vetinari said. "But the book of poisons is not an exclusive list of toxic substances."

That... was a clue, and Vetinari had said it and that was on purpose. "Toxic substances."

"Many things can be toxic depending on combination," the Patrician said.

"Bad sandwich meat?" Sam guessed, looking over his shoulder.

"Unlikely, unless it was yesterdays," Vetinari said calmly. "And as undoubtedly our own sandwiches and canapes were made with the same lot I would expect to see more of us re-enacting an Agatean banquet and dropping like the proverbial flies."

"That'd be something, wouldn't it?" Some days he could half imagine it, so no. "Something only he would have had and eaten, or... had touch him." Breathing, he’d learned that lesson with the candles.

"Indeed, and we know how difficult that can be to pin down, " the Patrician mused and glanced over at the continuing drama of the play acting murder. "Really, they could have done something challenging."

"They're getting into it." The crowd, the people who were on the inside, rather than watching them which he was happy about.

"Murder is seldom so neat," Vetinari said. "As I am sure you are aware Commander. Loose ends occur when the threads of lives are pulled and snapped."

"I can only imagine the kinds of loose ends we'll have flying about with the high priest of Blind Io dead..." He ran a hand back through his hair, and then glanced over to the wizards.

"Indeed, the more present concern would be the reaction of the family relative with the ability to explode this entire carriage accidently," Vetinari said. "Or on purpose."

"Accidentally on purpose and walk away." The whole carriage of them could blow up for all he cared, except Vetinari, and Sybil. Maybe the dwarves, because he rather liked them. "Maybe we can all pretend he's down for a nap until we get somewhere... stopped."

"Non-stop to Genua I believe," the Patrician said. "Amazing really. "

"How long did he say, again?" Long enough that every one had their own sleepers, and that his had a corpse in it.

"We will be there in the morning," he said. "Where we will be allowed a couple of hours or so before we return. But presumably in an emergency we could stop in Sto Lat."

"About... an hour?" Vimes guessed, because while he was versed in geography in a technical sense, because he's been spending time pouring over it from dusty old books from Sybil's great great great great something or others library, it did not mesh well with the new mode of transport.

"Yes. It would be advisable to perhaps stop there and get a medical doctor to examine Ricdully," Vetinari said.

"Maybe even a horse doctor. Right, I'll see to it." So no obvious poison, or Vetinari would've said something – – something that the man alone was exposed to, so not a mass threat yet.

He'd actually told him a lot in a strange way, and he absently over heard (eavesdropped in other words) about the play murder. It made it difficult to feel there was a context for any slip ups that might be mentioned. If someone said "I know who the murderer is," they could be going on about the game.

It was as if it had all gone out of their minds, and maybe they'd shoved it that way because a play murder was so much easier to deal with. Humans were funny that way.

"I accuse Lady Violetta, in the Dining Car with the candlestick!" Dr Whiteface said a little too enthusiastically.

The Patrician tsked and shook his head.

"So close, but so far," Moist said encouragingly, as Vimes tried to edge in and grab him for a moment. But Moist was ignoring him with a skill that only a conman could apply to a copper. 

"Hmmm, then surely it is Miss Crimson in the Library car with the poisoned dagger," Lord Downey put in thoughtfully.

"No, no, it's Captain Condiment, in the Engine car with the Coal Bucket!" Madame Sharn said a little drunkenly.

"You're all wrong," Lord Rust declared. "It's obvious. It was Maidservant Blanche, with the Nutcrackers in the Bed Carriage."

Good grief.

"It night very well be," Pepe drawled, grinning to himself and anyone else who looked at him, while he leaned into Madame Sharn. "I heard--"

"Lord Brown, in the dining car, with the salt shaker!"

Vimes didn't even remember there being a Lord Brown in the game. Someone was just playing silly buggers now and he must have rolled his eyes a little too obviously.

"Have you got a better solution, Commander Vimes?" Ridcully asked, leaning sideways a bit to look at him.

Bugger. He did have a better solution, but he didn't want to try to solve the damn thing because that took the fun out of it for the rest of them. 

"By all means, keep guessing, " he said catching Sybil's eye and noticing she had a fixed smile that meant if he was going to be embarrassing he would hear about it later.

Mustrum gave him a rather sour look, and guessed, "High Priest Green, with the knife, in the engine car."

"So sorry, Archchancellor, but no," Moist grinned. "C'mon, Commander."

"I don't want to spoil anyone's fun," he said almost plaintively and swore he saw Vetinari quirk a smile even as Lord Rust took offence.

"I believe you are just pretending modesty Vimes," he said. "You haven't even been playing the game. I suppose your abilities are more suited to common crimes."

He glanced around the room, and caught Sybil's eye. She nodded at him, and then he thought about it for a moment but yeah, why not? They both enjoyed sticking it in Lord Rust's eye and he was seized by the need to layer on the sarcasm. " Perhaps my investigatory skills have been honed on the streets of Ankh Morpork Ronnie, where clues are absent on the whole, and don’t conveniently come written on expensive bits of card. Oh and where, nobody ever saw anybody doing anything, because you know, the Ankh Morpork air leads to selective amnesia you know? Amazing stuff. And murder weapons are pretty much the nearest heavy or pointed object that is within arms length - once had someone killed by an ornamental representation of the Tower of Art. But yes, all these limitations aside, I do believe I know who it was. It's obviously Miss Crimson, with the ice dagger, in the Bed Carriage. The body was moved to the engine car after the fact, and it's always the ice dagger that leaves the puddle on the floor, isn't it? I mean, good grief, there isn’t a novelization of crime that hasn’t used the good old icicle as the undetectable murder weapon I mean, why else would his shirt be damp and bloody?"

"And our esteemed Sir Samuel has indeed got the correct answer!" Moist announced gleefully.

"If you are so good at solving murders, then why don't you illuminate everyone why you haven't solved Hughnon’s murder eh Vimes?" Lord Rust said sulkily. Good gods, a sore loser and a half.

"Go on then, why don't you solve that one Commander?"

He caught sight of a movement emerging from the carriage behind them all, a little unsteadily and a bit pale, their apparent corpse was on the move.

"Have I missed the game?"

"Because if I had to solve the mystery of how people are walking around alive when they should be dead we’d be in a lot of trouble and I’d need to double the numbers of the Watch!"

The words were out of his mouth the moment he saw Hughnon Ridcully come in through the door. Something clicked into place in his head and he knew exactly what had happened.

"I don't understand," Moist said glancing at the seemingly resurrected High Priest of Blind Io.

"Why don't you enlighten us Sir Samuel," the Patrician suggested slyly.

"There is no murder to solve, as this was no murder attempt,” Sam said, finding that he was the sole centre of attention. “He'd been poisoned it seemed but it was a strangely specific poison and one that perplexed even the experts. Food seemed the most obvious choice, but we all had fine sandwiches and we've all carried on eating unphased. The food testers are on their feet. There was no godly intervention to prevent an assasination, as has happened before, so that led to an inescapable conclusion - Hughnon did this to himself.”

“Attempted suicide?” Lady Selachii gasped.

“You could call it that,” Vimes said dryly. “There is one condiment that stands in front of both of the Ridcully’s dining place and nowhere else.” He moved over and picked up the bottle with a pair of tongs. “Wow-wow sauce. Slightly expired and highly volatile as proven by the unfortunate stomach explosions. It’s practically a weapon at the best of times, but when it has gone off? Well… apparently it can put even the weakest stomach of the Ridcully family under the table. The Archchancellor's supreme calm was the tip-off."

“I could have told you that all along, but the shame of a Ridcully not being able to hold his Wow-wow sauce should not be bandied about,” Ridcully said eating a chicken leg and gesturing with it.

“Oh, it is a source of family shame,” Hughnon said with a shrug. “I go into a short coma maybe once or twice a year. On the other hand, the gods quite like it. I get all sorts of visions, so no harm done really.”

“In this case it was Hughnon Ridcully, in the Dining Car with the out of date wow-wow sauce,” Sam said in a fit of devilry.

Pepe started some slightly drunken applause which everyone seized upon to cover the awkward moment. Vimes was almost certain most of them hadn’t a clue what they were even applauding.

"Well done Sam," Sybil said, by his side. "Glad to see you can hob nob and solve crime at the same time, despite assurances that it was impossible."

"I wouldn't call it hobnobbing, more investigating," he said but was interrupted by Moist who came over, bearing a golden envelope in his hand.

"Congratulations on your peerless investigation skills! I'm here to give you your prize," Moist said.

"How lovely," Sybil said and smiled as she took the envelope. "What is it?"

Sam's peerless investigation skills were signalling he was going to regret this.

"A family ticket for the Aurient Express!"

Of course it was. As the old coppers saying went, "No good deed goes unpunished."

Well at least the food was good. As long as you steered clear of the Wow-wow sauce.


End file.
